I’ve had this happen before–one of the unexpected benefits of switching to an SUV from a pickup: no shoveling out the bed.
Here’s a Found Summer Photo I can actually source. I lifted it from a cool as cucumbers tumblr page called My Parents Were Awesome. Sadly, my parents were not awesome–they took us on vacation in October because the crowds were shorter–visiting every restored Colonial Village from Saint Augustine (we had time to tour the fort, but not to actually step on the beach–mom hated sand) to Black Creek Village, Ontario. I’ve seen more women in bonnets demonstrating spinning wheels than I care to admit. Maybe the couple below would adopt me.
You might need to be like me, old as dirt, to experience the truly appropriate, visceral, shiver of disgust at the sound of his name, but when I was a little kid Henry Kissinger was a political name one heard almost as frequently as his primary employers, Presidents Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford. My fingers are crackling and steaming from just typing his name, such is the hellfire summoned by a mere mention.
Fred Banfram expounds on one of Kissinger’s more appalling chestnuts in a fine article on Alternet, which I very much encourage you to read:
“The illegal we do immediately; the unconstitutional takes a little longer.”
He was Secretary of State for two Presidents, this guy, and still appears regularly on TV news shows while drawing huge speaking fees for sold out venues. And then there’s this one:
“The emigration of Jews from the Soviet Union is not an objective of American foreign policy, and if they put Jews into gas chambers in the Soviet Union, it is not an American concern. Maybe a humanitarian concern.”
I actually left town for a couple of days to visit my sister and a few of my numerous cool nieces (I got to see four of 7 nieces–but none of my 8 nephews), which was awesome–my family is saturated by fantastic young folks–all of whom are going to come visit at Christmas, right? Right?! Thought so.
The main reason I abandoned you was to retrieve the latest in a long and storied line of ponderous machines. I bought Chuckwagon back in 1991, after my mechanic told me he wouldn’t repair my old Datsun because, and I quote, “Son, people die in cars like this.” Chuckwagon was better–Chuckwagon wasn’t rusted at all; it had merely been on fire, which was only the beginning of the legend.
Chuckwagon inevitably evolved from primer grey beater to elaborate oil sieve, and I was wagon-less for the better part of a decade, until I traded some manual labor for Chuckwagon II: Son of Chuckwagon, a gloriously square ’84 Caprice that we used as a second car until it had the temerity to pop a break line while my wife was driving it. Son of Chuckwagon was sent to the breakers, but it was my heart that was broken. There was something about that backwards-facing rear seat….
There he goes….
I’m stubborn, and when I found myself, three years later, with a few coins from beneath the sofa cushions, I couldn’t help by replace my latest beater–and my pickup–with a single, massive, beastly descendant of the great Chuckwagon gene pond. So, without further ado, I introduce Chuckwagon III: The Legend Grows.
It’s only a matter of time until….